


At the Sign of the Prancing Pony

by lindahoyland



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-08-23 06:56:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20238619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindahoyland/pseuds/lindahoyland
Summary: A certain inn holds a special place in Aragorn's heart.





	1. Chapter 1

At the Sign of the Prancing Pony

B2MeM Challenge: Aragorn's first visit to Bree, maybe in the company of Gandalf or with another Ranger. Were the Bree-folk always so suspicious of the Rangers, or did something happen to cause that?

Format: short story

Genre: friendship

Rating: PG

Warnings: none

Characters: Aragorn, Halbarad, OMCs

Pairings: none

Summary: Aragorn visits the Prancing Pony for the first time.

The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.

A/n I know nothing about ale and borrowed the description of Butterbur’s ale from a local brewer’s website.

“We deserve a drink before we return to the camp,” said Halbarad. “Those Orcs will never trouble these lands again. Luckily, the Bree folk lost only a few livestock and had no idea of the danger they were in.”

“Such seems to be the Rangers’ lot,” said Aragorn. “We try to remove the evils that could threaten simple folk before they are even aware they exist.” He took a swig from his water skin and regarded his kinsman with a slightly puzzled air as Halbarad made no move to quench his thirst. “I thought you wanted a drink?”

“I meant a proper drink at the inn,” said Halbarad. “Butterbur’s ales are spoken of with awe by every Ranger who has ever sampled them.”

“Who is Butterbur?” asked Aragorn.

“A Ranger for a year now and you don’t know who Ryeman Butterbur is!” Halbarad snorted. “He is the landlord of “The Prancing Pony", as were his father and grandfather before him and no doubt several generations before that. The recipe for his famous ale has been passed from father to son for generations. Much like the shards of Narsil, only tastier, come to think of it!”

“This Butterbur’s ale hardly helped destroy the Enemy,” Aragorn said rather icily.

“Peace, kinsman, I did but jest, but you will get my meaning once you taste the ale.”

The two Rangers strode through Bree and made their way up the sloping street, which led to the imposing inn. The building was adorned by a large sign depicting a fat white pony prancing on its hind legs.

Aragorn looked at it in wonder. There were small taverns in some of the Ranger villages, but the “Pony” was huge by comparison.

Halbarad led the way up the steps, but paused before he reached the top and whispered in his kinsman’s ear. “I am known as “Stalker” in these parts. You may as well be “Strider”.

“Why?”

“It will suit you with those great long legs of yours.”

“I already have two names,” Aragorn grumbled. “Do I now have to have three?”

“You might gain even more ere too long.” Halbarad grinned. He led the way into the inn’s common room before Aragorn could protest further.

It was dark inside the inn, compared to the evening sunlight outside and it took Aragorn’s eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloom. Visibility was not helped by the clouds of smoke from the many pipes being smoked and the fire in the corner. His keen hearing detected a good deal of muttering about the newcomers, none of it complimentary. When his eyes grew accustomed to the light within the large smoke hazed room he saw it was filled with a mixture of Hobbits and Bree-folk. They had all paused in their eating and drinking to glare at the two Rangers.

A thin brown-haired man approached them and frowned. “We don’t serve no vagabonds here,” he said. “This is a respectable 'ouse.”

Before Aragorn and Halbarad could reply, a short plump man pushed forward and rebuked the other. “Now, now, Ned, we serve anyone who has good coin, even that strange old wizard.”

“’e might turn us into something unnatural like pigs,” said Ned. “We ‘as to serve ‘im, even if ‘e does look as dirty as these two.”

“Baths are hard to come by in the wild places where we wander,” said Halbarad coolly.

“My apologies, good sirs,” said the fat man. “Ryeman Butterbur at your service. What might I be getting for you, sirs?”

“Two pints of your best ale please, Ryeman,” said Halbarad. “We will sit in my usual place.”

“Very well, Mr Stalker,” said Ryeman. “I’ll be fetching it at once for you and Mr-“

“Strider,” said Aragorn. “You can call me Strider.”

Halbarad led his kinsman to a table by the wall and the two sat down. “They’ll soon stop staring at us, especially as this table is in the shadows,” he said. “The folk here see anyone who is different to them as a threat.”

“I dread to think then what they would make of the horrors they know not of,” said Aragorn grimly.

“Such is the Ranger’s lot, to labour day and night for nought but hostile stares in exchange from those we protect,” said Halbarad.

“I wonder if the wizard they spoke of was old Gandalf,” said Aragorn, changing the subject. “He visits Master Elrond from time to time. A somewhat tetchy old fellow, but quite likeable from what I’ve seen of him. He seems interested in me for some reason.”

“Little wonder given your heritage,” said Halbarad. What other wizard is likely to come here? From what I've heard of Saruman he would not be seen dead in a public inn. It seems Gandalf is little better liked than we are.”

“But why do they hate us so?” asked Aragorn.

“We are much taller than they and no doubt appear grim and threatening in their eyes,” said Halbarad. “Then we appear after their sheep have gone missing or worse, so the Bree-folk accuse us of the ill fortune that befell them, as little do they know of the fell creatures that truly committed the crimes against them. It is better thus that they live their lives free from a care that would consume them all. You will get used to it in time, even with your cosseted upbringing.”

“I wonder,” said Aragorn.

“Cheer up, old Butterbur will bringing our ale any moment now,” said Halbarad.

“It had better be worth it,” said Aragorn morosely. He thought longingly of Rivendell and the fine quality wines served with every meal. He had over the past year become accustomed to the ale drunk in the Ranger villages, but it was poor stuff by comparison. He doubted the Bree-folk’s brew would even taste as good as that!”

Butterbur came bustling along to the secluded table, balancing two foaming tankards on a metal tray. “Sorry, sirs,” he said. “It be right busy tonight with it being market day and all.”

Halbarad reached for his purse and paid the innkeeper.

“You Rangers might be queer wandering folk, but you always pay your bill with good coin,” said Butterbur as he bustled away.

Halbarad picked up a tankard and licked his lips. “What are we waiting for? Now drink, young Strider and remember this day!” He raised the drink to his mouth with a flourish.

Aragorn took a cautious sip then another and another. The ale was rich and golden in colour, with a hint of hops and a very pleasant lingering, mildly bitter but malty aftertaste. It was delicious. He smiled blissfully.

“What did I tell you?” said Halbarad.

“I think I’m growing to like “The Prancing Pony,” said Aragorn. “We must come here again.”

TBC

A/N. Written for the 2015 BTMEM Challenge.

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	2. At the Sign of the Prancing Pony

B2MeM Challenge: "Wouldn't Barliman Butterbur be astonished to have the High King come striding in for a glass of 'proper fourteen-twenty'?"  
Format: short story  
Genre: friendship  
Rating: PG  
Warnings: none  
Characters: Aragorn, Faramir, Butterbur  
Pairings: none  
Summary: Aragorn returns to "The Prancing Pony" as King and introduces Faramir to Butterbur's best ale.  
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.

Return to the Prancing Pony.  
For elenbarathi

Ignoring the curious gazes of the villagers, Aragorn and Faramir strode up the steps and into "The Prancing Pony." Their guards made to follow, but Aragorn insisted that they wait outside.

As they entered the familiar common room, Aragorn was overwhelmed by memories. How long ago was it since he had first set foot here? Sixty years? It was seventy more like, or even more, since Halbarad had first brought him here to sample Butterbur's ale.

The thought of faithful Halbarad made the tears prickle in his eyes. It was the cruellest twist of fate that he had been slain before he could take his rightful place as friend and advisor to his King. Aragorn blinked away the tears as he led Faramir to a table in the shadows set against a wall. The very place where he had sat with Halbarad so many years before. The tables and chairs were unchanged apart from gaining more chips and scratches over the years.

"Are you well, mellon nîn?" asked Faramir.

The King forced himself to smile. He had lost one friend and adviser but found another he had come to love as dearly maybe even more so. He just could not but help wishing sometimes that both men were at his side. "This place holds many memories from long before you were born, some happy, some sad. But I didn't bring you here to listen to tales of my youth, ion nîn. You are long overdue in sampling Butterbur's fine ale."

"So you have been telling me ever since you planned this visit to your Northern Kingdom."

"It is the best ale in both kingdoms."

"Better than the Dragon's Breath you favour at home?"

"Better even than that. The recipe has been in the Butterbur family for generations. Old Barliman's grandsire was brewing it when I first came here. "

As if in response to a summons, a small plump man appeared. He was red faced and bald headed. "Good afternoon, sirs," he said. "What may you be wanting?"

"Two mugs of your best ale, please," said Aragorn.

"Will you be preferring the private parlour or be staying here in the common room?" asked Butterbur. "It's pretty quiet here at the Pony today what with the King visiting and all. The village is full of all manner of queer folk."

"We will stay here in the common room," said Aragorn.

Butterbur looked at him closely. "Begging your pardon, sir, but you look familiar, though your name slips my mind for the moment."

"I've been here before," said Aragorn with a smile, though he made no move to enlighten the innkeeper.

"Will you be wanting anything else with your drinks, sirs?" asked Butterbur.

"No, thank you, I brought my friend here specially to sample your best ale."

"Very well, sirs." Butterbur bustled away.

"I thought he would remember your name," said Faramir.

Aragorn laughed. "Old Butterbur would forget his own name if folk weren't shouting for him by it all day." He stretched out his long legs. "Ah, all I need is my pipe and I could be a young man again!"

"You do not need a pipe to be young. Think what your lady would say not to mention how it would make me cough!"

"Peace, Faramir, those days are gone now. I was careful to bring you here early before the common room fills with smoke. In the evenings, the common room is so smoky from the fire and pipe-weed fumes that it is hard to see across the room."

"I would not enjoy frequenting northern taverns often then. I would struggle to become accustomed to them."

"It depends where you are brought up."

"I suppose so," Faramir said rather doubtfully.

"I think a few more customers are arriving," said Aragorn. "Prepare to be the object of their curiosity."

A group of men who looked like farmers entered. Aragorn recalled how they would come to the "Pony" after selling their beasts at the market and celebrate with Butterbur's best ale. The newcomers took a table at the far side of the room, but their eyes never left Aragorn and Faramir. They started muttering together in low tones. Aragorn grinned at them. The farmers hastily looked away, but still kept stealing glances across the room.

Butterbur returned, balancing two full glasses on a tray and placed them in front of the King and Steward. "Here you are, sirs," he said. "It came to me who you remind me of,sir, it's that Ranger, Strider, or what he might look like after a bath and dressed in fine quality clothes."

"Your memory does not fail you, Barley," said Aragorn. "I am indeed Strider."

Butterbur's eyes grew wide. "Strider!" he exclaimed. "The wizard and the little folk said you'd left rangering to be king, hundreds of miles distant, so you'll be far away in your great castle drinking wine out of a golden cup, not sitting here in my bar!"

"I am indeed here in your bar," said Aragorn. He sipped his drink and sighed contentedly. "You beer is just as good as I remember it."

"The King here at the Pony! Well, I never did!" Butterbur bowed awkwardly then sat down heavily on a nearby chair, then jumped up again. "Begging your pardon, sir."

"No offence is taken," said Aragorn. "Did my friends not tell you I would return one day? I'm a man of my word. You can put as sign outside now, saying the King comes here for your best ale. "

"I shall indeed, sir," said Butterbur. "Well I never did. I don't doubt it, sir, In all my born days, I've never heard the like of this!"

"You have other customers waiting to be served, Barley," said Aragorn. "Deal with them, then come and sit with us and tell me about how things are in Bree these days and I'll introduce you to my friend."

Barliman appeared to notice Faramir for the first time. "Next you'll be telling me he is a prince or something!"

Aragorn laughed. "He is Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien in fact."

"Well, I never did!" Butterbur repeated. "I'm going to fetch Nob in, cleaning the stables can wait for another day." He bustled away.

"What do you think of old Butterbur, then?" said Aragorn.

"He is quite the character. He reminds me a little of good Dame Ioreth."

"Indeed. They could both talk the hind leg off a donkey," Aragorn replied then turned his attention to Faramir's still untouched glass. "You haven't tasted your ale, Faramir. Drink up, then we can have another glass before we have to be on our way."

Faramir eyed the ale suspiciously. "I'll drink it as not to hurt the old innkeeper's feelings, but you know I am not very partial to ale."

"I promise you, you will like this. It puts many a so called fine wine to shame." Aragorn raised his glass and drank deeply then licked his lips appreciatively.

Faramir took a cautious sip then another and another. He smiled contentedly. "It is good," he said. "We must come here again."

Aragorn burst out laughing.

"What is so funny?" asked Faramir a trifle indignantly.

"You spoke the exact same words as I did when I first tasted the ale here," Aragorn replied. "I have missed this fine northern brew. I am thinking of asking Butterbur to send a regular supply to Gondor."

"An excellent idea," said Faramir. "I should still like to come here again, though!"


End file.
